


king and lionheart

by lockhearted



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-25 04:54:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6180959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockhearted/pseuds/lockhearted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Laurent knows that, in the end, he will have spent more of his life without Auguste than with. But that doesn’t mean he’ll ever forget his older brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	king and lionheart

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the kidfic/babyfic square at [genprompt_bingo @ dw](http://genprompt-bingo.dreamwidth.org/).  
> Many thanks to anika and jz for betaing!

  **o.**

Laurent was born in the late spring, just as the early touches of autumn were beginning to shift the palette of nature from rich greens to vibrant red-golds.

The birth was difficult, and it turned out that Laurent was larger than expected—larger than even Auguste had been—and quiet. He was so quiet that no one was sure if he was breathing or not, and so in his first minutes of life the midwife spanked him until he cried.

Laurent, of course, doesn’t remember any of it; he can only put together the pieces of what his mother and Auguste have told him over the years.

Auguste particularly liked bringing up the fact that, until the age of four, Laurent had been taller than Auguste at the same age. Their mother often teased that if Auguste wasn’t careful, Laurent would end up bigger and stronger than him. Auguste would look down at Laurent and ruffle his hair good-naturedly. “If that ever happens, I suppose he’ll just have to be the Crown Prince then.”

(Laurent would have preferred that Auguste kept the title.)

 

**i.**

After Laurent learned to walk, he occupied his time following either his mother or Auguste around the grounds.

Their father objected at first, wary that Laurent’s presence would prove to be a distraction to Auguste’s studies, but time quickly showed that Laurent was more than happy to keep to himself as Auguste worked with his tutors.

He tottered around, helping Auguste carry his things from room to room, and spent class time turning the pages of Auguste’s books.

“Slow down there,” Auguste said, “or soon you’ll be attending my lessons with me, and what would happen to my big-brother pride then?”

Laurent, being too young to understand much of what Auguste had said, just smiled and lobbed the book at Auguste’s face.

(Or so Auguste claimed; Laurent, for his part, can’t imagine he was ever disrespectful enough to use a _book_ as a weapon.)

Auguste merely beamed. “That’s the spirit.”

 

**ii.**

The first full word Laurent ever said was “Auguste.”

Auguste spent some hours that night teaching Laurent to also say “mama” and “papa” with the same proficiency before presenting Laurent’s newly-discovered skills to their parents.

“Mama would have been devastated if the only thing you could say was my name,” Laurent remembers Auguste telling him later. “But I… I was very happy. I was always scared I wouldn’t be a good older brother.”

“You are,” said Laurent. “The best.”

 

**iii.**

Something was happening in the palace.

Laurent could tell, because there were too many people in the halls and too many people in the drawing rooms and his mother was nowhere to be found.

After the fifth time someone pinched his cheek and tried to pick him up, Laurent gave up on his search and took off in the direction of Auguste’s bedroom instead. The door was slightly ajar, which was odd—Auguste tended to leave his door wide open during the day.

Laurent stuck his head in and saw Auguste sitting hunched over at his desk. His elbows were planted on the map of Vere that he always had spread out across his desk and the heels of his palms were pressed against his eyes. His jacket lay discarded on the ground, along with the soldier figurines that Auguste never let him touch. It was the messiest that Laurent has ever seen Auguste’s room, and the smallest that Laurent has ever seen Auguste.

Laurent padded over and, when Auguste did not acknowledge his presence, he reached up and tugged on Auguste’s loose, white sleeve.

Auguste lifted his head from his hands and looked down. His eyes were red, and his face was wet. “Laurent.” His voice sounded strangely muffled. He cleared his throat and wiped at his eyes with his sleeve. “What are you doing here?”

Laurent lifted his arms and Auguste obliged the wordless request, hefting Laurent up by the waist onto Auguste’s lap. Laurent leaned in and wrapped his arms around Auguste’s neck.

Auguste’s arms came up and squeezed Laurent tightly. “Thank you, Laurent. I’m all right.”

Pressed together as they were, Laurent felt himself moving with each of Auguste’s shaky exhales, and he grew more and more certain that something was very wrong.

Laurent tried to lean back, found that he could not, and pressed himself more tightly against Auguste instead. “You’re sad.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“A friend of mine,” Auguste said. “He—It is abhorrent, what some people can do to their own families.”

Laurent felt, then, that Auguste was not making much sense.

(He wonders now if that was the start of it all. If Auguste, somehow, knew what was to come.)

Laurent frowned. “What?”

Auguste reached up to tousle Laurent’s hair, then picked him up and put him on the ground. “Perhaps when you are older, though I hope that by then…” Auguste stood, his chair screeching on the floor behind him, and turned away to look at his jacket on the ground.

Laurent looked up at Auguste’s back, waiting.

There was a moment of silence, in which Auguste’s back expanded and shrunk with his breathing, before he turned around again.

“Do you care for a turn in the gardens?” he asked, extending a hand to Laurent. “I could do with some fresh air.”

Laurent slipped his small hand into Auguste’s, and they spoke no more of it.

 

**iv.**

“Very good. I think that’s where we’ll stop for tonight,” Auguste said, taking the book from Laurent. He put a ribbon between the pages and closed it, setting it on Laurent’s nightstand. “Your bedtime stories are much more dramatic than mine when I was a boy. First theft, then adultery. I can only imagine what the poor noble will do next.”

“He can keep boys,” said Laurent.

Auguste’s smile was strange–almost like he didn’t want to be smiling, but didn’t know what else to do with his face. “Now that would be quite a tale. Where do you come up with your ideas, Little Prince?”

“Councillor Marcelet,” said Laurent. “His wife left him, so he keeps boys.”

Auguste was not smiling anymore. “And where did you hear that?”

“He was with Uncle, at Chastillon. They were talking. I heard them,” Laurent said. An unsmiling Auguste was never a good sign, and Laurent was suddenly unsure if he had said a bad thing. “Is something wrong?”

“There is a reason Marcelet is no longer welcome in the palace, and I don’t want you anywhere near him,” said Auguste. His face was stern and his voice had a hardness to it that Laurent was not accustomed to hearing directed at him.

“Oh,” said Laurent, suddenly feeling very small.

Auguste looked at him and sighed. He ran a hand across his face and through his hair, wiping away the tension and leaving behind only a profound sense of tiredness. “It’s nothing for you to be concerned about,” Auguste said, reaching out and ruffling Laurent’s hair. “But I don’t want to hear you say something like that again, okay?”

“Okay,” said Laurent. He settled into his bed sheets. “Goodnight, Auguste.”

“Goodnight, Little Prince.” Auguste leaned over and kissed Laurent on the forehead before blowing out the candle and making to leave the room.

He paused in the doorway, and Laurent made a small, questioning sound.

“Do not speak of this to Uncle,” said Auguste after a moment. His face was unreadable, shadowed by the door. “I wouldn’t want him to worry.”

 

**v.**

“Rawr!”

Laurent screeched as Auguste sprang from the hedges and tackled him in the side.

“You’ve been caught by the Akielon tickle attack!” Auguste’s fingers prodded at Laurent’s side until Laurent was on the ground, squealing and swatting ineffectively at Auguste’s hands. “Yield!” he said, moving over to tickle at Laurent’s abdomen.

“Vere will never yield!” Laurent managed to say through his mad scrambling. His flailing legs managed to make contact, and Auguste released him with a startled “oof!”

Laurent rolled away and climbed onto Auguste’s hunched-over back. “Surrender Akielos!”

“I yield, I yield!” Auguste said. He collapsed onto his stomach on the grass, Laurent still on his back. “Akielos is yours! What will you do with it, Little Prince?”

“Join it with Vere,” said Laurent. It was always the same conclusion when he and Auguste played these games. “Bring back the old empire!”

Auguste rolled over onto his back, and Laurent scrambled out of his way.

“Bring the old empire back,” Auguste said, an odd look on his face, “and then what?”

“And then—” Laurent began, then stopped. Auguste had never asked this before. Laurent thought there was really only one thing that should come after war. “Peace.”

“Peace?”

Laurent nodded, assured of his answer. “Everyone’s friends. No more fighting. Ever.”

Auguste smiled. “That sounds like a kingdom I would very much like to see.”

 

**vi.**

To the delight of his tutors, Laurent was an avid reader and quick to pick up everything that Auguste was bored by—poetry, literature, mathematics, and most importantly the languages and history of other nations.

Vere was on friendly—or at the very least negotiable—terms with all of them, the most unstable of which being their relations with Akielos. Vere and Akielos did not have an alliance; only an understanding that, with their current strengths, an attack would be disastrous for everyone involved. But that in itself was stressful; if someone were to slip, there was no doubt that war would be fast approaching.

His tutor did very little to hide the fact that he thought all Akielons were uncivilized and exceedingly barbaric, and Laurent heard enough around the palace to know that this was a common opinion among Veretians. He thought, specifically, about playing with Auguste, and of pretending to conquer Akielos, and thought that maybe there was something of it, if even Auguste promoted the downfall of Akielos.

But Auguste claimed that play was play, and reality was more complicated than that.

“They have their culture, as we do,” Auguste said, “and though it is different from ours, and often puts us at odds, it does not make them uncivilized brutes. We all come from different experiences. It will be important for you to remember that, when you are dealing with other nations.”

Laurent looked at him. “That’s your job.”

“Maybe,” said Auguste. “But just in case.”

Laurent remembers the feel of Auguste’s hand, heavy on his head, and the small, sad smile that graced Auguste’s lips. He didn’t understand then, but he listened.

Auguste always knew best.

 

**vii.**

“He is only a boy!”

Laurent took a step back from the doors of his father’s study. His father and Auguste did not often argue, but when they did, it was loud enough for all the servants nearby to realize they had matters to attend to in other parts of the palace.

“When you were his age, you could already go a few rounds with the sword,” said his father, and Laurent realized quickly that they were speaking of him. “And you spent your days outside the palace, with the councilor’s sons hanging off your every word. If we continue to neglect his education—”

“His education!” said Auguste, so explosive that it rung in Laurent’s ears. “Laurent is far more focused on his studies than I ever was, and twice as quick with his mind as I ever will be. What need has he to tussle in the grass and play well with the children of the court?”

“You lose sight of what is important. Vere—”

“Vere will always come first,” Auguste said. “Everything I do outside these walls, I do for Vere. But this has nothing to do with Laurent. I am already Crown Prince. Or do you wish for him to be like Uncle, patiently counting his place in line to the throne?”

“Watch your tongue,” said his father. “You will not speak of my brother in that way.”

“Then you will not touch mine,” said Auguste.

There was a silence.

Laurent pressed himself against the wall by the doors. His breathing was heavy. He had never known that his father was so displeased with him, and had never before been so aware of what a staunch defender he had in Auguste.

“I mean no disrespect,” Auguste said. His voice was quieter; Laurent strained to hear it through heavy oak. “I understand you are only thinking of what is best for him, but understand me. If you send him away, you will be losing two sons.”

Footsteps echoed from within the room, approaching the door, and Laurent disappeared down the hallway before he could be caught.

 

**viii.**

“You weren’t at your swordplay lessons today.”

Laurent didn’t look up from his book. “I don’t like swordplay.”

Auguste knelt down in front of him and put a hand over the book, pushing it down.

Laurent scowled but let it happen. Auguste had a determined air about him that meant Laurent wouldn’t be escaping this conversation, so it was best to get it over with.

“I know you don’t like it, but that’s never stopped you from attending lessons before,” said Auguste. “What’s wrong?”

“Benoit was frustrated last time,” Laurent said, referring to the palace swords master who was assigned to teach both crown princes the basics of swordplay. “He said I can never hope to be as good as you.”

“Do you want to be?”

“No,” said Laurent, “but if you’re already good with swords, then why must I be, too? It’s a waste of time. I can learn things that you’re bad at instead. Like the harp. Then we can help each other.”

“I will not be with you all the time,” Auguste said, “and it would make me feel better to know that if you had to pick up a sword you won’t lop your own fingers off with it.”

“I would not,” said Laurent, indignant. “Just because I have not your large muscles and superior strength—”

“All right, settle down, settle down,” Auguste said, waving his hands and laughing. “I just meant that if you had the means to defend yourself, I would rest much more easily at night.”

Laurent thought about this and found it reasonable. “Can you teach me?”

“What?”

“I don’t like Benoit. He’s mean and he smells of cheese,” Laurent said. “And everyone says you’re the best swordsman in Vere. So you can do it instead, right? If you teach me, I promise I’ll practice every day.”

“Well,” Auguste said, then was silent for a moment. “All right, I’ll take it up with Father. But you will need other teachers. Maybe not Benoit. But you are smaller and quicker than I, and will need someone who can teach you to use that to your advantage.”

“All right,” said Laurent. He would take any bargain, if he could have Auguste as his tutor.

“Okay,” Auguste said, rising. “Oh, and by the way—” Auguste flicked Laurent’s nose, “—I’ll have you know I’m perfectly decent at the harp. Why, just yesterday Mama told me that my playing is like nails against a slate—you can never forget the sound, no matter how much you wish to.”

Laurent frowned and rubbed at his nose. “Is that meant to be a compliment?”

“People’s words,” said Auguste, “can mean whatever you wish them to.”

 

**ix.**

The celebration of Auguste’s coming of age included a tournament, larger than any that Laurent had seen before. Auguste participated in a number of events, including the horse races, where he soundly defeated all the other riders.

After the victors were crowned and the spectators began trickling out of the stands, Laurent went down to the stables where Auguste was brushing down his mare. “Congratulations.”

Auguste smiled down at him. “Thank you, Laurent.”

“You’re faster than me,” said Laurent. “But I always beat you at Chastillon. You’re letting me win.”

“You caught me,” Auguste said, but he was grinning and did not look very sorry about it.

“Why?”

“Your pony is still young, but you are a very good rider,” Auguste said. “I may have something to worry about in the next few years.”

Laurent frowned, unsure if Auguste had actually answered his question, but also not willing to belabour the point. Despite how straightforward Auguste was a majority of the time, he was also annoyingly skilled in the art of avoiding things that he didn’t want to talk about.

(When Laurent thinks about it, he knows that there were probably a great many things that Auguste kept hidden from him—out of care, not malice. But he doesn’t think of it often. He doesn’t want to someday decide that maybe he hadn’t known Auguste at all.)

“Well,” Laurent said, “I would like to beat you on my own.”

“And so you shall,” said Auguste. “One day, you will be the best rider in all of Vere. Even better than me. I know it.”

“No more cheating,” said Laurent.

Auguste ruffled his hair. “On my mother’s grave.”

 

**x.**

Laurent had been counting down the days until Auguste returned from border duty. However, now that Auguste’s arrival at the palace was imminent, Laurent found that he did not want to be there. He would rather not see Auguste at all than welcome him back, only to watch him leave again for his tour of the kingdom weeks later.

However, avoiding him was, of course, not an option, and so Laurent found himself standing on the steps with his father and mother as Auguste and his guard rode into the courtyard. They were immediately surrounded by cheers and revelry. Laurent gave his brother a loose hug and perfunctory kiss on the cheek, then took advantage of the distraction of the crowd to slip away.

He avoided his room and the library, knowing those would be the first places Auguste would search. Instead, he picked his way through the courtyards of the gardens and settled in an arbour by the lily pond. He stayed there reading about Patras until the sky turned orange, and then he contemplated returning to the palace for supper.

The crunching of boots on the dirt interrupted him before he could decide. “Here you are, Little Prince,” Auguste said as he stuck his head around the side of the arbour. “You have the whole palace looking for you. It’s time for supper.”

“Okay,” said Laurent. He stood and moved to walk back towards the palace.

Auguste put a hand on Laurent’s shoulder.

Laurent stopped.

“Are you upset with me?” asked Auguste.

“No,” said Laurent. He did not turn.

“I only ask because you seem upset.”

“You are here, joyously returned after six months on the border. Why would I be upset?” said Laurent.

Auguste stepped closer and tugged at Laurent’s shoulders until they were face-to-face. “I didn’t mean to leave you alone, Laurent. I would have avoided it, if I could.”

“I can be alone.”

“But you don’t prefer it.”

Laurent stepped back. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“We must,” said Auguste. He put both hands on Laurent’s shoulders now. “Laurent, I am of the age to inherit now, and my duties will only grow from here. As we grow older, the things in our lives will begin to separate us. We have to prepare for that day.”

“I am,” Laurent said, and hated how his voice wavered. “Preparing.”

There was a sad tilt to Auguste’s lips when he smiled. “Well, I don’t mean for you to do it by avoiding me altogether. We will still be seeing each other often enough.”

“No,” said Laurent. “Not enough.”

“Yes enough,” Auguste said, childish. “And even with the distance, I will always be but a letter away. All you have to do is send word. You will always come first, Little Prince.”

Auguste’s argument with their father years ago sprung to mind, unbidden.

 _Vere will always come first_ , Laurent remembered.

“Do you swear it?” Laurent said.

Auguste pulled him into a hug, tight and unwavering. “I swear it.”

 

**xi.**

Laurent did not see Auguste for a full year after that.

 

**xii.**

“Mama’s dying, isn’t she?”

Auguste, newly recalled to the palace, sat down on the bed and drew an arm around Laurent’s shoulders. “Yes, she is.”

Laurent squeezed him back, tightly. He knew of death, but only as a fact, a noun. He had never seen the process of it, never watched someone quietly fade away, the way his mother was doing.

(Laurent remembers spending those sleepless nights hoping that his mother would miraculously recover, then, failing that, wishing that it would be some time before he would have to face loss again.

How naïve he was.)

“I’m scared,” said Laurent.

“Me too,” Auguste said. He leaned down and wrapped both arms around Laurent, resting his chin on Laurent’s head. “We all are.”

“She’s going to leave us,” said Laurent, drawing his arms up to wrap around Auguste.

“Yes,” said Auguste. “But I’ll still be here, and Father. You won’t be alone, Laurent. You won’t ever be alone.”

Laurent tightened his hold and allowed himself, just for a moment, to believe the lie.

 

**xiii.**

In the distance, the starburst banner toppled.

“ _No_.”

Laurent rode, not looking to see if his guard was following him or not. The field of Marlas was nothing but a blur of armor and swords, and he came back to himself on his knees beside the fallen body of his brother.

From either side, he heard the sounds of swords being drawn. When he looked up, he understood why.

His brother’s murderer was still there, massive and easily recognizable by his lion pin badge.

“He fought well,” Damianos of Akielos said in a rough voice. “Honor him with a proper burial.”

One arm was limp, thick rivulets of blood trickling down his armor at the shoulder, and Laurent remembers vividly the moment he noticed Damianos's injury and thought, vindictively, _I hope it hurts. I hope it will always hurt._

But that too was quickly swallowed by the cavern that had opened up in him. He couldn't speak. He couldn't move, not even to pull off his helm. All he could do was realize, over and over—

_Auguste is dead. My brother is dead._

  
  
  
  
  


**xxi.**

Laurent lays across Damen's chest and traces the scar across Damen's shoulder, a painful physical reminder of the mark Auguste has made on both their lives. He caresses it with the pad of his thumb and feels years of memories embedded in the tissue.

He wanted to leave a similar mark, once. Thought of it, vividly—driving a knife through Damen's flesh and watching as his life escaped him in dark pools of red. It would be messy. It would be slow. It would be better than he deserved.

Damen is watching him through lowered lashes, silent.

"I loved him," says Laurent. "More than I will ever love anyone else."

"I know," says Damen.

His hand is warm and solid on Laurent's hip, a reassuring weight.

Laurent closes his eyes, feels the steady beat of Damen's life beneath his ear, and breathes.


End file.
